While Fiona Sleeps
by Jedi Skysinger
Summary: Series of one-shots from Michael's POV - reflections on his changing relationship with Fiona. Companion to While Michael Sleeps
1. Author's Note

-1This series was inspired by the episodes Unpaid Debts (when Fiona says that he left in the middle of night without a goodbye, presumably she must have been asleep when he left) and Broken Rules (when Agent Bly comes to the door Michael's wearing pants., presumably he got up sometime during the night to put them on ). My passion in writing is to get into the character's heads, so there's often a lot thinking, but not always a lot of dialogue. Varies by chapter. Each chapter is named for the episode in which it occurs and/or the location it takes place.


	2. Broken Rules

**A/N: **This takes place after the discrete fade to black and before Agent Bly wakes them up at the end of Broken Rules.

_When you're a spy, you learn to adapt to your environment. Sleeping through an air raid or the noisy night club that happens to be below your place becomes easy. But then, no matter how small it is, one sound out of place and you're instantly alert._

It was a particularly soft sound and it was not unfamiliar. He'd heard it before and he'd been hearing it in his dreams a lot lately. What startled him awake was the realization that it was _actually _Fiona making that breathy half moan, half sigh and not his overwrought nocturnal imagination. For one brief moment, he allowed himself to smirk. He'd caught the double meaning when she'd demanded he satisfy her tonight. Apparently, he had because Fiona, a notorious light sleeper herself, was deeply asleep, making that charming little noise she used to make when their nights together had ended like…. Well, like tonight.

It was one thing, he decided, to dream of Fiona and wake up hugging a pillow and quite another to actually wake up hugging Fiona. The part of him that wanted to close his eyes and pretend they were back in Ireland was definitely at war with the part of him that was already doing damage control. She made that little noise again and shifted deeper into his embrace, almost as if she'd known he was already trying to figure out how to scoot out of the bed as gracefully as possible.

Another reality of actually being with Fiona instead of dreaming about her soon presented itself. His stomach rumbled. He'd survived in a cave along the Afghani border on little more than a couple of MRE's for months, but being with her somehow always left him hungry, in more ways than one.

He chuckled lightly recounting the number of times she'd mumbled 'go eat' before drifting off to sleep on those nights. Sex with Fiona was exhausting as well as exhilarating, sort like Fiona herself, enchanting and yet exasperating, as endearing as she was irritating, often within seconds of each other.

She was a beautiful contradiction and she scared the hell out of him.

As if on cue, his stomach complained again and Fiona rolled on her side away from him. Apparently she wasn't used to sleeping with anyone either. Or maybe she was. He didn't know what she did in her off time, though he was reasonably certain she wouldn't be trying to re-engage with him if she was engaging with someone else.

"_I can't shag a man who works in a bank. The End."_

"_He was rich, he's handsome and you broke up with him." _It had been a statement, not a question.

"_He had no tactical awareness," she had said. "He didn't know how to shoot. He didn't know how many exits were in a building. Oh God, Michael, you've spoiled me."_

"_And I thought it was my winning smile."_

He thought back on that night. She'd looked so damned sexy sucking sushi off those chopsticks, sucking it off her finger…no doubt intending to remind him what she could do with those fingers and that mouth. There was more sake involved to impair his judgment than tonight. It had certainly seemed as they were headed back to his place that they might do what they had done tonight until Sugar's goon had interrupted them.

"_Violence is foreplay to you. It's not to me." _

Thinking back on it now, he was damned lucky she'd gotten pissed and walked off instead of taking his head off. It had been a low blow, but he saw his opportunity to push her away and he took it.

And regretted it almost as soon as he had said it.

And wasn't true either.

.

Violence certainly had been foreplay for him tonight as well as other times during their previous relationship. He kept telling himself he was only trying to hold her at bay, dodging her attempts to initiate something while trying to "kick his ass." But he knew as soon as he flipped her onto her back that he was going to kiss her and he knew as soon as he kissed her how the rest of the night was going to go. The fact that she'd let him pin her down told him as much. Fi preferred to be on top after all

A slight cramping in his midsection reminded him that there was a blueberry yogurt with his name on it across the room. .Michael slipped out from under the sheet and into a pajama bottom. As a general rule, he didn't care to be naked. It made him feel….well, naked. There weren't many places to hide a weapon and most of the places you could hide one were very unpleasant. He preferred Armani suits to birthday suits. At least that way he had a waist band to tuck a gun into. Years of growing up wearing jeans and long sleeved shirts in the searing Miami heat to hide his latest battle scars had left him with a distaste for the vulnerability a lack of clothing brought and an imperviousness to sweating. It had been good training.

He padded soundlessly across the room and snagged the small carton from the fridge, reflecting briefly of what he used to eat before yogurt became widely commercially available in the '70's. He moved back toward the staircase, intending to go upstairs to plot his next move when he found himself in the ugly green chair beside the bed, studying Fiona's slumbering form. She was such a dynamo when she was awake that he found himself drawn to watching her, and not for the first time in their relationship, pondering the contradiction of her at rest to her in action.

Especially while he could watch her without the possibility of her catching him doing it.

Fiona was breathtaking, her hair fanned out over the pillow, her slender limbs tangled in the sheets. She looked so sweet and innocent while asleep, like that ridiculous milk maid get up she had wore for their dinner with his mother. Not even too much of a contrast from the way she'd looked when he'd first found her sprawled across his bed and realized that she wasn't planning on leaving Miami any time soon. That is until she'd caught sight of Sam and launched the beer bottle at him. Zero to sixty in less than a minute.

"ah, Fi," he breathed. It was easy to be amused by her antics when he wasn't dealing with them. It had been too easy to fall back into the habit of depending on her for tactical support. Not like he'd had a lot of options for tactical support since he'd been unceremoniously dumped in that Miami hotel room. He had only been awake little more than ten minutes when he was already asking her for a favor. At the time, all his thoughts had revolved around getting out of that hotel room with the FBI left behind and getting Dan Siebels on the phone. He sighed. If he was being honest, leaving Fiona behind, yet again, was also part of that plan.

"_Relationships are just not my thing. They never were." _

He hadn't been lying exactly when he'd that relationships weren't his thing, but what he'd really meant was he wasn't good at relationships that couldn't be defined as working relationships. As long as they were doing surveillance, running a con, or blowing off a little post-mission steam, he was comfortable. Same as working with Sam or Dan or... well, almost but not quite. However, when it strayed into less 'mission centered' areas, it seemed the mixed signals frustrated Fiona almost as much as she frustrated him. Something as simple as cooking her a meal and asking for a favor apparently meant something very different to her.

_"The point is, it was a message for me to shut up and accept the fact that I've been burned or my friends and family are fair game."_

_"Oh. I see," she'd said softly.. "I'm curious. Which one am I?"_

_"Can we discuss this later?"_

He'd known well enough what she'd meant, but under no circumstances was he going clarify for her, right at that moment or maybe ever, that family had a completely different meaning for him. Friends would watch your six, back you up, sit in a hot car all day or peer through a sniper scope all night and afterwards give you the room to decompress until it was time to do it all over again. Family just came with baggage that you'd go across the globe to get away from.

He found himself growing sleepy again and pondered what do about it. He was rarely at a loss on how to proceed. His unstable upbringing had taught him how to think on his feet, but it had also left him with battle scars of a different sort, the kind he couldn't shake off as easily as a broken rib or a busted ankle. After decades of ruthlessly squashing his feelings and manipulating others' feelings, honest conversation in that area was a difficult proposition at best. Michael Westen was good at his job because it was easier to be someone else than it was to be himself.

_"Yeah, I promised to talk about it. I didn't promise I'd know what to say."_

In the end, he opted to crawl back under the sheet and drift off, soaking up her warmth and her presence while she was quiet and satisfied because he was reasonably sure she wouldn't stay that way for long once she awoke. This was going to be awkward. Back in the bad old days ending a date was easy as dropping her off before returning the car he'd stolen for the night. If a mission called for assets with benefits, that was easy, too.

Until Fiona.

In his life, he had had plenty of sex, but he had only ever made love to one woman,

Which is why he was lying here next to her trying to figure what he was going to say in the morning.

If anything.


	3. Dead to Rights

_**A/N – This takes place immediately after Anson's departure from the loft in **__**Dead to Rights.**_ M_**any thanks to PSU93Girl for the beta as we ramp for the last three episodes of Season 5. **_

_Who the hell are you?_

_I'm the last one of them. I'm the man who didn't want to be found. The one you missed in Caracas. I'm the one who sent Tavian to frame you for killing Max when you wouldn't leave well enough alone. I'm the one who watched you tear down every last shred of the organization that burned you. The organization I spent half my life building. _

_What do you want from us?_

_For starters, I want you to let go of me. Right now. That's better. Next order of business: your meeting with Agent Pearce tomorrow, I expect you to keep your mouth shut. After that, we'll talk about all the other things I want from you. It's a long list. _

Anson had walked out of the loft, banging the door behind him as he went.

Neither one of them had spoken. Michael had continued to stare at the door, while the shock and disbelief had given way to a cold rage. Fiona, he could see in his peripheral vision, had alternated between staring at him and staring at the door, still trying to put together what Anson had said to them.

His body had screamed at him to do something, anything, but he had been rooted to the floor by the bitter knowledge that they had been played. They had been conned as surely as they had conned countless opponents these last five years; outmaneuvered by a master operative who did indeed apparently have all the cards.

Fiona had been the first to break the stillness. It was bad enough that Anson had framed her, manipulated them, endangered his life, but now two, no; three innocent people had been killed in order to accomplish it. She had headed straight for her handbag, snatching it up and shoving her hand in, before dropping it a second later as though she'd been burned.

When she spun around to face him again, she had looked sick; her expression a frightening mixture of revulsion, fury, and overwhelming guilt. It was the same look she'd had on her face when they had failed to stop the bombing in Omagh that had killed twenty nine civilians over a decade ago.

The bug Anson planted in her bag had fallen from her suddenly stiff fingers onto the floor with a small thud that echoed throughout the silent room.

Michael had swept her out of the loft then, pausing only to grab his phone and their 9 mm's. He had debated between his car and Fiona's coupe, which was after all an armory on wheels, for a millisecond before deciding on the Charger.

Her car had been at the bombing site. It was undoubtedly caught on the security cameras, but the footage was probably already part of the evidence that Anson had gathered. He was more concerned about what some random patrol unit might have spotted.

Which is how, after a quick call to Jesse-she had begged him not to call Sam-they had ended up in his favorite secluded spot overlooking the water while the loft and her car were being swept for bugs, recording devices, explosives or any other unwanted electronic intruders. Jesse had already swept the Charger when it had been retrieved from impound.

Normally he wouldn't have gone out into the open like this, but Dr. Fullerton had made it clear he had plans for him, plans which involved using Fiona as leverage. The ex-CIA agent was as certain as he ever was about anything that nothing was going to happen to them.

Tonight, anyway.

Michael had wanted to oversee the clean-up in the loft for himself, if for no better reason that to give himself something to do, some action he could take, but he knew he needed to get Fiona out of there. He had originally intended to go to his mother's house, but she had pleaded with him not to do that as well. It seemed that she couldn't bear to face Madeline either. The former guerilla had never backed down from anything. Her motto had always been guns blazing, which told him that her emotions were too raw to interact with anyone outside of a very small circle of one at the moment.

Michael knew how she felt.

In fact, he felt strangely enough more secure with one hand in hers and the other holding his SIG Sauer P228 in the front seat of his car than he would have at whatever randomly chosen motel they would have ended up. It had only taken a moment after he'd snapped the phone shut and turned onto the causeway for her to sink down in the seat and her eyes to slide closed. She had looked more defeated and lost than she had the night he'd driven home from their dinner with his mother and Benny. He knew she was trying to process what had just happened.

Fair enough, so was he.

"Just like Belfast," she had muttered and the implications of that statement were vast. He chose not to pursue it.

As they sat in muscle car not too close to the shoreline, Michael found an odd sense of peace in focusing on her, despite how much it hurt him to see how hurt she was. This was largely because it freed his mind from running in endless circles about what had happened to him today and what he could have or should have done to prevent it.

Missing Larry hiding behind his fence had been the first of many mistakes. He'd been running on adrenaline too long. He... looked at Fiona again and forced himself to think about the petite Irishwoman seated across from him who had not only offered to die with him, but had also killed for him today, the ends of her hair stirring slightly in the breeze wafting through the open window.

He reviewed what Fiona had told him about her interaction with Anson, about her deceiving Sam, about her fears that she might kill him herself while dealing with Larry. He looked at her profile in the moonlight. She looked so troubled, even in her sleep.

Any satisfaction she had felt at finally finishing off Larry had gone up in the flames of the second explosion. Her voice had broken when she told him that seeing him staggering out of the building in the smoke and fire had reminded her too much of the time he'd almost been caught in a fire bombing back in Ireland. And then Anson...

"Oh God, Michael!" she screamed, sitting bolt upright in the seat.

"Fi, it's okay." He tugged on her hand, trying to pull her attention to him. "I'm here, you're okay."

She looked around wildly for a moment before processing where she was and then she was reaching for him. Michael had already pushed the driver's seat all the way back, so it required very little maneuvering to draw her into his lap, encircling her in his arms and tucking her head under his chin.

"Oh, Michael," she whispered brokenly. "I- I thought I killed you."

"It was just a nightmare, Fi," he assured her, though he knew the real nightmare was just beginning.

"Just like I-"

"You didn't kill the guards. Anson planted those bombs, not you."

"But you said..." a sob was building in her throat.

"I know, Fi. I was just disoriented." He kissed the top of her head. "I know you wouldn't have done that. Even when you were in the IRA, you-" He stopped himself. That was not going to be helpful. Michael squeezed her tightly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said it. "

"But if I hadn't..."

"Fiona," he said, tilting his head to the side and lifting her chin so she had to look at him, "If you hadn't, Larry would have killed me. I saw it in his eyes. I wasn't going to make it out of there alive this time."

"I couldn't let ...I couldn't..."

She pulled away from his hand and buried her face in his polo shirt again.

"Shhh, Larry is dead; really dead this time," and for that he was grateful. He'd had the opportunities in the past to finish it and he hadn't taken them. If he had, they might not have been in this position right now. It seemed like he was always hurting her by something he didn't do.

She nodded mutely and continued to burrow into his shirt.

And they sat there like that, while she sniffled softly, as the stars shone in the night sky, the water lapped on the shoreline and the sea breeze that drifted through the windows made it bearable, just as their need for each other made it unbearable for them to separate. No matter what conspired against them, no matter what mistakes were made, they were still alive and still together this night. He would focus on that.

"Thank you, Fiona," he said at length.

She looked up at him blearily. He could see she didn't feel worthy of thanks for any of her actions.

"For saving me," Michael told her with a gentle smile. "Whatever else happens tomorrow, you saved me today. Thank you, Fi."

Fiona didn't know what else to say, so she settled on throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him with as much love and adoration as she could pour into it.

So, of course, the phone rang.

But since it was Jesse, presumably calling to tell them the loft and Fi's car were clean, he decided to answer it.

"Let's go home," he said, and despite how violated they both felt about the loft, about their lives, he meant it as a good thing.

Hours later, as he lay on his back with Fiona pressed to his side in their own bed, her head and arm across his chest, he continued to watch her as the dawn's light started to fill the loft. Sleep continued to elude him while he threaded his fingers through her damp hair and rubbed absentminded circles on her bare back.

He had thanked Jesse profusely, but perfunctorily, when they returned because he had something he needed to do rather urgently. Surprisingly, she had hugged Jesse when she thanked him, which caused Mr. Porter to shoot him a look that said 'who is this and what has she done with Fiona Glenanne?'

Michael had mouthed, "Long day," and then smiled slightly to let Jesse know that it was as okay as it was going to be for now.

After their friend left, he had taken her by the hand and led her into their tiny bathroom at the back of the loft, laid the weaponry on the vanity, and stripped off his shirt. Fiona had looked at him questioningly.

"He can't take this away," he had informed her quietly and then poured as much as passion into his kiss as she had earlier.

He had come to appreciate the benefits of a long shower. He didn't like being that vulnerable at his first home, didn't have the opportunity in the Army, and never knew when he could get one as a covert operative. But since he had been burned, he had discovered the blessing that came with being able to regularly take a long shower and wash the day away, especially somewhere as hot and humid as Miami.

But he had also learned on that day he thought she'd died in the fire that there was an added healing that came with making love to her in the shower. It was the ability to let all the pain drain away while holding onto what was good, what was the best part of his world right at that moment, no matter what was waiting for them on the other side of the shower curtain. Even if their adversaries for that day turned out just to be each other.

"I won't let him take this away," he vowed to the woman molded against him, apparently sleeping peacefully for the moment, and to the world in general. He had no idea how he was going to do it, but it didn't matter.

Michael Westen kept his promises.


	4. Damned If You Do

**A/N **This takes place after the closing scene in Dead to Rights and just before the opening scene of Damned If You Do. Many thanks to everyone who's favorited, alerted and reviewed and a special thanks to PSU93Girl for doing the BETA honors. Strangely, I somehow still do not own Burn Notice.

_**For a spy, finding out you've been compromised, that someone has something on you is the ultimate nightmare. The worst part for someone who has spent a career training for every situation is knowing there is nothing you can do but grit your teeth and try to figure out exactly how bad the nightmare is going to be.**_

Michael Westen had never felt so cold in his entire life.

Russian winters had toppled empires; the armies of Napoleon and Hitler had been defeated by the bitter, brutal cold that he, as a covert operative, had experienced many times and yet, standing on a beach in the blazing summer heat that was Miami even at sunset, he had been frozen to the center of his soul. His mind had gone blank except for the words "The things that man gave us before he passed away." Michael had continued to stare at the footprints in the sand, long after the "last one" who had made them had gone.

Sometime during the exchange, Fiona had reached out and taken his hand. He'd never been one, by training and by temperament, for public displays of affection. But if she'd thought he was going to release his grasp on her and shake her off as he had in the past, she was mistaken. Her hand had been the only thing tethering him to his sanity at that moment.

So many emotions had coursed through him that he couldn't settle on one to attempt to deal with or just outright deny. There wasn't any more room left, any more places he could bury his feelings.

It had felt too much like growing up, which was exactly what Dr. Fullerton had intended. It wasn't the feeling of having unknown, faceless enemies. He had dealt with that on the streets, in the Army, and in the field. It was knowing whose pawn you were. Knowing that they knew they could violate your life, the lives of those close to you, at any time. Knowing someone powerful and ruthless held your life and theirs hostage and there wasn't a damned thing you could do about it. Anson had very intentionally and very effectively invoked the ghost of Frank Westen

Michael had slowly become aware, how long it had taken he could not say, of Fiona hanging her head and staring at her shoes. It felt like an alternate reality. A highly effective covert operative had been standing in the open, completely unaware of time or his surroundings, and a former IRA guerilla, who had taken a block of T-4 to his former mentor a little over twenty-four hours ago, had been standing there, swallowing convulsively and not speaking.

Early this morning, he'd made her a promise. The determination he'd felt had not diminished, but he was even less confident than ever that he had anything but a rough goal and a few tactical objectives. As she slowly raised her head and met his troubled gaze, he could tell something within her had broken. He saw it in the change of her posture, the set of her mouth, the jut of her chin.

Fiona Glenanne was ready to defy the world again.

Which was good, because he had never felt so directionless, so without a plan in his life. Not even when he was burned had he felt so out in the cold.

She had tugged on his hand and then pulled him along the beach, leading him back to the Charger. She'd opened the passenger door and he'd let her drive them back to the loft.

_**For a spy, the worst thing that can happen is to become someone else's asset. **_

Agent Pearce was staring at him, glaring actually, which is a neat trick if you're wearing sunglasses. But Michael didn't need to see her eyes to know. He felt the waves of disapproval and betrayal rolling off of her. She stood with her hands crossed tightly across her chest, her mood as dark as her business suit. He was standing at the side of a black operations van: no windows, jammed with electronics. There were agents from every level of government intelligence and law enforcement encircling them. He remembered it now. They had convinced Pearce to let him go and talk to Tavian Kortisa. Only, he wasn't being fitted for a wire. He was still in handcuffs. Something was wrong.

An agent in a gray suit and ubiquitous sunglasses walked Fiona towards him. The breeze was picking up and it wafted through her hair, blowing around the light gray tank top and loose pants she wore.

"They got you, too?" he asked, looking past her to see his friends, Sam in his golden Tommy Bahamas shirt and Jesse in his shirt and tie, come to stand alongside this CIA handler.

"I told them to pick me up at the loft," Fiona replied, drawing his attention back to her beautiful, but resigned face. "Then I asked if I could say goodbye." Her voice was laden with sadness.

Picked her up at the loft? But she had been at the bridge when they caught her...

Michael said what he'd said... He remembered it well, despite how much had happened since Tavian had thrown himself off the building. "An hour ago I was on my way to jail for the rest my life. How much worse is this really?"

Fiona draped her handcuffed arms around his neck and drew him in for a long kiss. When she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes.

"No, you're not going to jail for the rest of your life. I am. I confessed." The tears began spilling over onto her cheeks. "It was the only way to free you. I confessed to the bombing. Now Anson can't hold you anymore. You're free of him, Michael."

Reluctantly, she released her hold around his neck. Another agent joined the first one and together they grabbed Fiona roughly by her upper arms and began to drag her away.

"No!" he protested. Michael tried to stop them, but as he attempted to move, to even raise his hands, he realized that he was longer just handcuffed, he was now shackled.

Suddenly, his friends were right in front of him. He had seen Jesse look at him like that before, cold hatred, but he had never seen the murderously angry expression on Sam's face directed at him before.

"Why'd you let her do that, Mike?" Sam accused. "She's got too many enemies. You know she's not going to make it out of jail alive!"

"Sam, no, I -"

"Why'd you do it, man?" Jesse demanded. "That girl was ready to die for you and you're gonna let her take the fall on this?

"No, no. I never wanted-" Michael protested vehemently.

Instantly, Sam and Jesse were gone and his captor was inches from his face.

"What you want is irrelevant, what you have chosen is at hand," she informed him coldly. Agent Pearce slowly took off the sunglasses and her eyes bore into his.

"Why, Michael? Why did you lie to me? Again?" the dark haired woman challenged. "Why couldn't you trust me this time? I could have stopped this. I could have helped you, all of you." Her expression turned from anger to sorrow. She shook her head and turned away as two extremely large operatives in black battle garb closed in on him from either side.

"Now you two can go to prison together," she declared without looking back.

The scene shifted. He was sitting on the floor of a prison cell in an orange jumpsuit, his face leaning against the side of the steel cage. He was holding someone's hands through the cold metal bars. He raised his eyes and met hers, which were trying to express misery and joy simultaneously. Fiona was gaunt, her hair lank, her face bruised. She was wearing the same jumpsuit, only hers had discolored from dirt and wear.

"At least we're together, Michael."

_**You do anything you can to avoid it, making sure there's nothing people can grab onto and use as leverage. **_

Michael gasped and shook himself awake. He was still clutching Fiona's hands. But instead of reaching between two interrogation cells at Guantanamo, they were lying side by side in their own bed; their clasped hands between them. Her eyelids were closed tight too, as if against the images behind them instead of reposing in sleep. He held her two small, but deadly hands between one of his and reached out with the other to run his fingertips lightly over her tense forehead. She moaned and then awoke slowly, now encircling his calloused hand with both of hers, pressing it to her lips briefly as he continued to brush his fingers lightly over her face.

She gazed at him in the dim light. "You, too?" she guessed.

Sleep was a rare commodity in the loft these days. He'd had his nightmares before and she hers after Armand's visit, but now they were both struggling with their own nocturnal private hells, which ironically centered on their fears for each other.

"Fi, you can't—"

"Shhh," she shushed him. His Irish lover knew what he was going say as well as he did. They'd had a protracted discussion about how to handle Anson's hold over their lives all the way until bedtime.

"Please. Don't," Michael whispered miserably, feeling more vulnerable than he ever had and hating every second of it.

Fiona sighed deeply and closed her eyes. She ran her right hand gently up his arm onto his neck and then pulled him with her as she rolled onto her back, pressing his cheek against her chest. After a moment of shifting around, adjusting his position, he lay against her, his larger form incongruously cradled against her smaller frame.

Though she'd clearly meant it to console him, it was Fiona who went to sleep. Michael stared out at the moon for a moment, visible through the windows behind the kitchen area, then closed his own eyes and concentrated on nothing but the sound and the feel of her: her heartbeat echoing in his ear, the faint pulse of it vibrating against his face, the light rush of her breath in and out of her lungs, the slight rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her skin next to his….

_**You move through life unattached, keeping the world at a distance. **_

He was running, his heart pounding in his ears; running harder than he could ever remember. The features of the street, the cars, the buildings, and the people were all a blur. He tapped the Bluetooth in his ear and tried to suck in enough air to pose his question.

"Location, Sam?"

"Jesse's triangulating the signal now. We'll have her in a minute."

A minute; an eternity.

Michael ran.

The Bluetooth rang. "Where, Sam?"

"Don't try to stop me."

Her voice was a cornucopia of emotion, but above all determination and devotion.

"Fi, no. Not this way."

"It's the only way."

Michael had to slow down to get enough breath to argue with her.

"It won't solve it, Fi. You know he's got the evidence on a fail-safe. You'll still go to jail." He had to keep her talking, give Jesse time to find her.

"That doesn't matter. He won't be around to hurt you anymore, Michael. That'll be over. I took out Carla; I can take him out, too."

"Please, Fi," he begged. "Don't do this."

"See you in Stockholm."

"Fiona!"

She terminated the connection.

He tapped the earpiece and growled "Sam?"

"Should be a large parking structure on your left, do you see—"

He was running flat out again. As the floors flew by, it reminded him vaguely of his run to meet Cowan. Then the ending to that scenario stopped him cold as he reached on the top floor. He heard the rifle crack before he located Fiona's sniper nest.

Time seemed to stop and then telescope painfully. He couldn't get to her. He felt as if he was trying to run through a sand dune.

This didn't make sense. Anson had to know that the moment Fiona died he was a dead man himself. The only thing keeping Michael from snapping the scheming bastard's neck with his bare hands was their lives, her life—it didn't make sense that he would kill her.

Michael's relief at spotting her quickly turned to horror as the red bloomed sickeningly against the white of her shirt. Then he was with her in an instant, gathering the motionless woman into his arms.

As a covert operative, he'd seen that wound too many times before. She only had minutes. There was nothing he could do.

"Stay with me, Fi," he whispered nonetheless, placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

His heart felt as shredded as hers surely was, albeit with a different kind of shrapnel.

"You can't kiss it better," she told him, crimson starting to color her mouth.

"Fiona," he pressed his face to the wound over her heart, the agony of it washing over him as surely as her blood did.

She made a gurgling sound deep in her throat and laid her hand limply on the back of his head.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..." he chanted brokenly.

The weight of his grief threatened to crush him. It felt like the night he thought she'd died in the fire, but exponentially worse. This time he was holding the proof of her death in his own stained hands.

Except -her heart shouldn't be beating like that—it shouldn't be beating at all….

"Michael."

There was an odd quality to her voice. It was getting stronger, not weaker.

"Michael."

It was a complaint, soft and sleepy, but a complaint nonetheless.

It slowly penetrated his brain that her heart was beating steadily. They weren't lying huddled on a concrete roof deck; they were lying in their bed, although most of his weight now was on her upper body. The liquid on his face wasn't her blood; it was actually some combination of drool, sweat and... tears?

"Michael, please…"

It was a testament to how exhausted they both were that when she pleaded with him, he knew it was because she wanted to go back to sleep.

"Sorry, Fi," he murmured, shuffling off of her. He lay on his stomach next to her, shoulder to shoulder, not wanting to put any more distance between them than absolutely necessary, and tried to steady his breathing.

"S'okay," she slurred. Fiona used the sheet to dab the moisture off her chest. "Laundry tomorrow," she muttered before drifting off again.

Laundry?

Michael almost laughed.

His feelings were more of a tangled mess than the sheets. He wished he could just wash away the entire mess his life was enmeshed in as easily. Michael controlled the urge to embrace her again and contented himself with watching her sleep, feeling her next to him, taking in the scent that was uniquely Fiona Glenanne.

The CIA's newest asset was in that most hated place: too tired to get up, too keyed up to sleep. The security review tomorrow-no, today, it was already AM instead of PM- was weighing heavily on his mind. He'd just dodged the proverbial bullet- again- by being cleared of Max's murder only to find himself-again!- under someone's thumb. Perversely, Michael found himself wishing they would revoke his current clearance so Anson couldn't use it.

He thought about what his agency contact had said in his dream. Fiona had argued, surprisingly, that they should trust Pearce and let her help them. That was the least objectionable of the plans she had proposed. Tactical analysis was one of his strong suits, but the possibilities of what Anson could want were endless and the probabilities of what he would demand all seemed guaranteed to leverage the ex-spy's hard-won standing with the agency. There just seemed to be no good options.

His emotions, something he had worked on controlling all his life, were getting the better of him. The erosion of that control was irritating enough in and of itself, but the loss of sleep was exacerbating the problem. Michael knew from recent experience that his subconscious wasn't going to give him a break just because he needed the rest. He rose up on one elbow and watched Fiona sleep, peacefully it seemed.

Having his supportive partner here, he thought with affection, was so much better than the alternatives. He certainly had been deeply shaken by the two he'd just dreamed. Michael pressed his lips softly to her temple and then lay back down on his side. He knew he was going to have to get up and get ready for his meeting with Pearce shortly, but he couldn't resist the lure of lying beside her just a little longer.

_**It's a hard way to live, but there's a cold logic to it. **_

Michael was almost to the office in downtown Miami for his security review when he got the phone call.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Hey, brother, where're you at?" Sam's voice sounded funny, strained maybe?

"I've got a meeting with Pearce. Is there a problem?"

"Not really sure, Mike. I stopped by the loft a little while ago to talk to Fi. You know, see if I could mend some fences, let her know I wasn't …"

"And how did that go?" Michael prompted.

"Something's up, Mikey. She was packing up some really heavy stuff: assault rifles, machine pistols, C-4, the works. I asked her if she was restocking her trunk, but I couldn't even get a rise out of her. She said she was going to have to lay low for now because of this Anson thing and she was sending it all to storage. But get this, when I offered to help her move it, she turned me down cold. I thought, you know, maybe she was still upset about sending me off on that wild goose chase with that sonuvabitch, but—"

"But what?"

Sam blew out a frustrated breath that whistled through the cell phone. "Fiona was packing a bag, and not her usual day bag either, and then she goes and gets all jumpy when I ask her what she's up to. I didn't mean it like that, like she was doing something, but, Jesus, I'm telling you, she sure took it that way. Then all of a sudden, she couldn't wait to have me deliver a bunch of these boxes to storage. I don't know…" the older man trailed off.

"Sam?"

"The thing is, Mike, when I'd loaded the last of the boxes into the Caddy, before she sends me off, Fiona tells me that I've been a good friend to her. I'm telling you, brother, this mess with Anson has really got her all shook up."

The Charger did a one-eighty in the middle of six-lane divided highway in a swirl of white smoke, burning rubber, squealing tires and protesting horns.

"Where are you?" Michael demanded. "Never mind. Just get back to the loft-and Sam,"

"Yeah, Mike?"

"Don't let her leave."

The engine roared as the black muscle car shot recklessly through the streets. He pushed it as fast as it would go without wrecking the damned thing, weaving through and around traffic. Michael prayed he wouldn't pick up a police escort on the way. Paxson would probably take care of it after the fact, but he didn't time to waste explaining anything to anybody.

"Ye don't fall in love with an asset. Did they not teach ye thot in spy school?" said a terribly familiar voice from the passenger seat.

"Fiona is not an asset," he contradicted harshly.

"Yer right, she's not. She's a bloody liability. Thot girl's nothin' but trouble looking fer a place t'explode."

Michael was really too busy watching the road, but he couldn't help but glance over to his right briefly.

"Wot's all the fuss then?" the apparition of Robin O'Dowd queried. "Are ye trying t'get yerself killed, man? Ye left her back in Dublin fer a reason, ya know."

Michael growled as he made a hairpin turn around a corner, nearly taking out the coupe and the pickup next to him.

"You don't get to have the girl and the job. She doesn't fit into your future," another voice with a distinctively nasal tone chided from the opposite seat. "So why don't you do yourself a favor and forget the past."

"Fiona is not my past!" he declared, turning to glare at the ghost of Tom Strickler.

As the words left Michael's mouth, two gunshot wounds appeared on the man's chest.

"You're bleeding on my upholstery."

"Well, you're the bastard who shot me."

The Charger screeched to a halt in front of the metal gate and Michael flung himself out of the car. He threw open the rusted barricade and stopped short on the other side.

Larry was standing there, where he had been-how many days ago?-except that Mr. Sizemore's suit and hair were smoldering. Michael could almost smell the smoke coming off his ex-partner.

"What's the rush, kid? Too busy to say hi to your old pal?"

"Uh, you're really dead this time and I'm really in a hurry," he said as he pushed past Larry towards the stairs.

"You're wasting your time. She's gone."

Michael froze and then turned back to face him. "Larry," and his tone carried a warning.

"Don't look at me, kid. I didn't do it. You know, you really should have kept her around," he chuckled. "She's got some real stones, that one; which is more than I can say for you these days."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at you; you're pathetic! At least Fiona had the guts to do what it took to take care of this."

Michael turned away from his former mentor and raced for the stairs. He knew what he would find.

"She's gone, man. She's off the grid and she's not coming back!" Larry called after him.

The heavy metal door banged open as he rushed inside. It was worse than he'd imagined.

Not only was she gone, it was like she had never been there at all.

The loft looked exactly as it had the day he'd moved in five years ago.

Sparse.

Bare.

Empty.

Meaningless...

He staggered to the cold bed and collapsed on it.

He knew he was dreaming, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

_**Love nothing and nothing you love can be used against you. **_

Michael Westen stood on the balcony, squinting out into the sunrise. Someone was probably taking his picture right now, but he didn't care.

He knew he was awake this time. When he'd finally forced himself out of that last nightmare, he couldn't resist the urge to gather Fiona up into his arms and cover her face, her hair, and her lips with tiny, gentle kisses until the position of the sun told him it was time to get up. She'd drifted back off to sleep again, sighing happily for the first time in what seemed like ages.

As he stood there, showered and dressed, staring out over the river and the city beyond it, his mind drifted into the past, dredging up all the images of their partings over the years.

_Leaving?_

_Uh, yeah._

_You're good at that._

The hardest one had been Dublin and yet the way it went down was the only way he could have done it. He knew now he wouldn't have been able to do it if he'd had to face her. How could he have ever convinced himself that it was okay to leave her behind?

_You ran away in the middle of the night for my benefit?_

_Believe it or not, Fi, yeah, it was for your benefit._

_And yours._

_Yes, Fi, and mine._

Later, in the Middle East, in Italy and in Germany, he'd told himself the lie. He'd see her again. They would meet again, it seemed they always did, and they would come together and part again. It was never meant to be anything permanent, just an island of happiness in their otherwise hectic, separate lives. That was the nature of their relationship.

He'd pushed her away, time after time, only to pull her back to him again. It's was a miracle Fiona didn't have whiplash from trying to keep up with his ever-changing moods where their relationship was concerned; that perpetual, almost tragic dance between want and duty, need and fear.

_Covert operatives have a hard time dating. Even if you find someone who doesn't mind that you won't talk about your past or that you carry a concealed weapon, they usually want more than you're able to give._

_It isn't that simple, Michael. You think you can let the job be who you are, all you are, and you can't. It's dangerous to think that you can. _

He pushed her away; no matter how much he wanted her, because he was afraid. So afraid of so many things; so terribly afraid of the reality they were living right now for one.

But she knew him better than he knew himself. While he and Samantha had played games, enjoyed the lies, made no real or lasting connection, Fiona had seen right through him and his pretenses straight into his heart. Maybe that's why she kept coming back for more, no matter how many times he hurt her.

_You left, Michael. You had a choice to make and you made it. I always thought, maybe, when it came down to it that- but you didn't._

_What are you saying, Fi?_

_That I'll always care about you... Michael... and I'll still help you with your thing and you'll still help me with mine, but we can't be together. _

_I know. I said that for a long time._

_Yes, you have._

Even when he had her believing the lie too, had her thinking that they were never meant to be, she'd still supported him, still backed him, still cared about him. He'd told her coldly that she should damned well want for him what he wanted for himself and she'd still offered to stay and help, despite the heartbreak in those expressive green eyes.

What a bastard he was.

And still she'd stayed with him until the day he'd pushed her too far.

_This isn't about one fight, Michael. If you didn't see this coming, you weren't paying attention. You're too worried about your own future for there to be one for us._

Even then, when she'd left him, it was because of what he was doing to himself that ultimately drove her away.

_You do what you have to do. I understand. I just can't stay here... in Miami... and watch._

She was right. He was a bastard, a cold hearted, self-centered bastard.

Or rather, he had been, until Fiona Glenanne had reached in and touched a part of him he thought was dead. He'd fought against that connection all these years, for practical reasons, for selfish reasons, for stupid reasons. He tried to honor that loyalty, in the end, when it looked like it was their last stand. He'd tried to push her away one last time in order to save her.

_You said it yourself, Fiona. Maybe it's time you went your own way._

And yet, there she was, willing to die with him rather than live without him. She'd surprised him often in their relationship. But he was never more shocked by anything in his life than when Fiona had crashed through that opening in a hail of gunfire. She'd chosen certain death rather than leave him.

_When it's time, we'll do this together. _

Michael still couldn't grasp the magnitude of it. He hadn't had a lot of time to process what she'd done and the full meaning of it when he'd been swept away by the CIA for questioning. The burned spy had to shut that away and concentrate on what was happening for that first week they'd kept him in the dark, not knowing and only suspecting, what was going on.

But, over those six months he was gone, during the rare down times, he thought about what she'd done, what she was willing to do and how much he wanted -no, needed- her in his life.

And now, when it made the most tactical sense, when it made the most personal sense, when it would have been the right play for the wrong reasons or the wrong play for the right reasons, he couldn't do it.

He just couldn't let her go.

_**Violate that rule and make that connection with someone, you've handed your enemies the key to destroying you.**_

Former Agent Westen turned from the balcony railing and walked slowly back into the loft. She looked better rested, he noted as he sat on the edge of the bed. His added weight shifted the mattress and caused her to stir and awaken.

The Irishwoman looked up at him and her expression was one of sleepy contentment and trust. She believed in him, even when he didn't believe in himself. Perhaps that was why Fiona got so frustrated and angry with him. He returned the sweet smile and reached out to gently caress her cheek.

Michael regarded her tenderly for a moment, his heart swelling with love for this woman he'd tried so hard to keep at arms' length for so long. He was unable in that moment to remember how or why he had continued to put his job ahead of her all this time.

Then he rose and walked out of the loft without another word or a backward glance.

Michael knew what he had to do.


	5. Hard Out

**A/N: This takes place following the dinner scene in Hard Out. There will be sequel chapters upcoming from Fiona's POV and another from Mike's again.**

**Thank you as always to everyone who fav's, alerts and reviews (dont' we all just LOVE reviews - thanks for taking the time to do it!). Special thanks to Amanda Hawthorn and Purdy's Pal for reading this through and to Daisy Day for getting me off my duff to post it! Points to identifying the playlist (hint: there's no Daughtry in this - that's all being saved for WWLB). Enjoy!**

-ooooooooooo-

_"To supportive partners," _he had said, flashing his most charming smile and hoping she understood that he was trying to appreciate just what a sacrifice this had been for her.

"_Supportive partners," _she had agreed with more than a trace of irony in her voice, then drained the entire glass of wine in one protracted gulp.

_Threat assessment is an important skill for a covert operative. When new intelligence changes field conditions, the ability to assess the risk is critical. Failure to adapt can have far-reaching consequences._

The meal had been a surreal experience. He'd had plenty of dinners where he'd smiled and pretended to have a pleasant time all the while plotting what he should do during the course of the meal and afterwards. But this was the first time it'd happened with his mother at the table while she was actually enjoying the company of a man without worrying when the screaming would start.

It was also the first time in over a decade he'd had a meal with Fiona and had to wonder if she would pistol whip him when it was over.

They'd said all the right things in all the right places. If it was a beat or a tone off, they were the only ones who noticed. Maddy had been too wrapped up in Ben to be her usual observant self. He supposed he had that to be grateful for.

Despite the tension, Michael had been really hungry. He'd had a really long day out in the Caribbean heat and no food, followed up by a long debrief and not much more than a cup of yogurt in between. Fiona had almost glared at him when he dug into the salad course with more enthusiasm than normal. Only the pretense of having a good time kept her smiling, but it didn't touch her eyes.

_I could ask someone I used to know. He might be able to help._

While thinking back on it between the salads and the entree, he'd been really irritated. Hadn't she volunteered to contact Armand? He had been ready, although not particularly willing or able, to get into Homeland Security if necessary. What choice did he have? The burnt spy had to clear his name before being forced learn Spanish the hard way. Fiona'd practically insisted on doing it and it's not like he'd asked to be framed for Max's murder.

Or had he? A very small part of him felt guilty that his insistence on tugging at those loose ends was what had gotten Max killed. Both Max and Fiona had told him to let it go. He'd been ready to move on, wanted to actually, once he had gotten the answers he needed out of Kessler. Except he didn't get the answers he wanted out of Kessler. He didn't get anything except another corpse to put in a body bag.

So there they were again in the same frustrating place - always in pursuit of the answers...

_Is there bad blood between you?_

_He likes me fine. I'm less than enthusiastic about him_

...Except in this case.

She had been right, he hadn't asked any questions. Had it been a client, a statement like that would have sent his "super spy sense," as Sam jokingly called it, into overdrive. But she'd told him what he wanted to hear. She'd actually told him to go through his notes again and disappeared to do whatever it was she needed to do to get him the answers that he needed. The former black marketer had seemed slightly hesitant about the contact, but was more than willing to do whatever it took to keep him out of the southeastern end of Cuba.

_When you work in intelligence, you get used to the idea that some information is worth risking everything for. _

Once again, he didn't stop to ask at what cost to the people around him those answers would come. The fact that she'd left and didn't come back the rest of the day should have been his first clue this was not a simple favor, but he'd been too immersed in his work to notice her absence until the natural light had faded and she'd come back looking rather faded and worn herself.

_Fi, you don't have to do this._

_It's a little late for that._

Finally, they had finished.

Fiona had drunk much and ate little, though she was quite skilled at making it look like she had consumed more than she had. Maddy and Ben had been too wrapped up in themselves to notice what was going on around them, laughing and joking as they had wrestled over the check.

They had all walked to the parking lot together, while Michael had debated the best way to get Fiona to leave "her baby" behind in the parking lot and let him drive her back to the loft. Suggesting she was in any way diminished in her driving capability was off the option list regardless of the alcohol content in her blood.

She had just pulled her car keys from her handbag when, in another stroke of unexpected good fortune, Madeline had done it for him.

"Honey, you look really tired," she had said, reaching out to rub the younger woman's shoulder consolingly. "I know you had a very rough day," she had flicked a glance at him for a millisecond before turning back to Fiona. "Why don't you let Michael drive you, hm?" His mother had smiled and he knew that look. "Your car will be perfectly safe here."

Apparently, Maddy hadn't been totally oblivious to what was going on. Her favorite "daughter" did look tired, though it resembled weariness more than sleep deprivation.

He slowly let loose the breath he had been holding when Fi nodded and agreed. He took advantage of the situation immediately, jogging off to get the Charger before she could change her mind, leaving her with his mother and Ben to say their goodbyes. He had been relieved that she had acquiesced and at the same time he had been concerned, worried actually, that she had.

Then he'd sworn at himself while maneuvering his father's car quickly through the parking lot. He was getting to be as mercurial as Fiona worrying about how mercurial Fiona was going to be.

Ben had opened the passenger door and Fiona slid in with a murmured thanks. Michael had been above all grateful to finally be away, eager to look at the contents of the envelope that had been burning a hole in his suit pocket throughout dinner, but also expecting that she was going to unload on him the minute they were out of hearing range. He braced for the assault

Uncharacteristically, she didn't say a word. Fiona faced straight ahead, her eyes drifting closed with a sigh, seeming to shrink into the white leather bucket seats. His mother was right, she did look tired. Except she looked more than tired, she looked almost... deflated, as though she were somehow collapsing in on herself.

He had to pay attention to his driving for a few minutes, weaving through the back roads he favored. The Miami native knew these streets well, having lost more than one law enforcement officer in his younger days-and a variety of nasty people more recently-in the twists and turns of what passed for traffic planning in Dade County.

He looked back at her again. He hadn't seen her like this since... ever actually. Her bouts of drinking usually ended with her temper flaring hotter. When she'd found out he wasn't Michael McBride, she'd launched a beer bottle at him that had landed squarely in his chest and improbably exploded. There had to have been a flaw in the glass, similar to the flaw in their relationship, silent and undetected until put under pressure. There was a reason you normally broke a beer bottle before using it for a weapon.

"Fi?"

No answer.

She'd seemed to have bounced back by the following morning after making the contact. At first, he smirked in spite of himself for being at least perceptive enough to have a hand- or more accurately hands, lips, and other body parts- in improving her mood overnight and then he sighed heavily. If only they could connect as well when they were vertical as they did when they were horizontal, they could have probably saved each other years of heartache. She'd been cheerful enough until the quartet of motorcycles had shown up.

"Fiona?"

Still no answer.

Michael tightened his grip on the steering wheel and watched her out of the corner of his eye. She'd been waiting, he realized in the painful clarity of 20/20 hindsight, waiting all the while she'd explained the situation to him that evening, to Sam again the next day, and again to Jesse in the car on their ride to the marina, waiting for him to dig deeper, but he never had.

_I didn't know that, Fiona._

_No, you didn't. Ignorance is bliss._

"Fi-o-na." he said in a tone that usually guaranteed a defiant response.

Again, no reaction. She was either passed out, asleep, or determined to ignore him.

He'd never had to wonder where he stood with her before. His Irish lover had always let him know almost immediately if he'd angered or disappointed her with either the lash of her tongue or the sting of her hand. These were untested waters.

Worse yet, it was still water and no way of knowing how deep it ran. He hadn't enjoyed the feeling that had washed over him watching Fiona ride away on the back of that bike or the one that had settled in while he was waiting for her to come back. He was just now beginning to appreciate what was on the other side of the sniper scope so to speak and he found he didn't care for the view.

"I'm sorry, Fi."

He debated the wisdom of reaching out to touch her for a moment before doing so. No response at all.

The silence was becoming a physical presence in the vehicle. It was a testament to how unnerved he was that Michael did something he had rarely ever done in the five years he had had the Charger. He turned the radio on. Nate had made a point to upgrade the sound system when he had helped Michael rebuild the car and he was pleasantly surprised with how clear it sounded.

_Be careful little lips what you say _

_for empty words and promises_

_Leave broken hearts astray _

_It's a slow fade when you give yourself away_

_It's a slow fade when black and white are turned to gray_

_and thoughts invade, choices are made_

_A price will be paid_

_When you give yourself away_

_People never crumble in a day_

Okay, not so pleasantly surprised. He changed the channel.

_I wonder what tomorrow has in mind for me  
>Or am I even in its mind at all<br>Perhaps I'll get a chance to look ahead and see  
>Soon as I find myself a crystal ball<br>Soon as I find myself a crystal ball  
><em>

And that fast, he was thirteen years old again, hiding out in a stolen car, using the radio for company while trying to decide if it was safe enough to sneak back into the house or just give in and sleep in the car.

_Tell me, tell me where I'm going  
>I don't know where I've been<br>Tell me, tell me, won't you tell me  
>And then tell me again<br>My heart is breaking, my body's aching  
>And I don't know where to go<br>Tell me, tell me, won't you tell me  
>I've just got to know<em>

Definitely not helping. The last thing he needed was a trip down memory lane, particularly since his road was more Elm Street than anything. Now he remembered why he never listened to music after getting recruited into the CIA. Michael reached out to turn off the stereo, but hit another button instead

_How did we get here? _

_Well, I used to know you so well. _

_How did we get here? _

_Well, I think I know._

"Dammit," he swore again, turning off the stereo.

Fiona stirred as the music cut off. She regarded him momentarily, then shut her bleary eyes and turned her face to the windshield again. Maybe, he decided in another moment of relational clarity, she was having her own trip down the streets of Belfast past and, while he didn't know every piece of her history, he knew there was no shortage of things to haunt her if she let them.

Except, she almost never let them.

Except now.

What the hell had happened while he was gone?

For that matter, he suddenly remembered as he pulled into the space below the stairs that led to the loft, where the hell had that cache of automatic weapons come from? Fiona hadn't been there when he returned from his jaunt with Agent Pearce, hadn't come back while he'd cleaned up and changed for the agency debriefing and hadn't answered her phone-first while he examined the deadly machines that appeared to be top-of–the-line black market wares and again on his way to the restaurant.

He had been relieved when he spotted her little blue coupe in the parking lot. He'd assumed that they'd have time to discuss it after dinner. It appeared that he had assumed wrong.

"Fi, we're here."

Michael gave up after a moment and exited the driver's side. He came around to her side of car and opened the large black door. He leaned in with the intent of checking her breathing and carrying her upstairs. When his hands came in contact with the back of her knees and her neck, she startled, head butting him in face. He flinched back in pain, pulling away from her on the assumption that it might not have been an accident.

"Sorry, sorry, Fi," he apologized, rubbing his jaw and cheek, despite the fact that she had struck him.

Fiona pulled herself out of the Charger, swaying slightly and steadying herself on the top of the door window.

"It's fine," she informed him brusquely, pushing past him and heading for the stairs.

Michael followed behind, closing the short distance quickly. "Are you-"

"It's fine," she repeated flatly.

He hurried up the stairs and unlocked the deadbolt before she arrived on the landing, then held the door open to let her pass.

"Can I-"

"I said," she reiterated in a tired and tired of it voice, "it's fine."

He was really beginning to hate that word.


	6. Last Rites

_A/N: This is the companion piece to While Micheal Sleeps covering Michael's thoughts before he sees Fiona in prison in Last Rites. My take on the visitation scene in 6.03 will be appearing in Three Sides to Every Story – Theirs tomorrow. Thank you to Amanda for the quick BETA and to Purdy and Daisy as well for reading through this and CJ for being lovely. Much love to the ladies on Twitter and greetings to all the great new first time authors – Welcome to BN FF Land! _

_-oooooooooo-_

_~Fiona was sleeping, looking so peaceful, so beautiful as she slept.~_

Michael had reverted to some of his old ways. Back in the day before Fiona had taken over his man cave and transformed it, he would sit at the work bench or at the computer and tinker with gadgets or gather his Intel and then fall onto the bed or onto the couch, depending on where he'd been working, passing out into a dreamless sleep because he'd finally achieved exhaustion.

But it hadn't worked this day and the dreams had come anyway.

_~It didn't seem odd to dream and in his dream to be watching her as she was enfolded in her own dreams. He loved to watch her sleep. ~ _

He had known there was a reason his mother and Sam had insisted that he not return to the loft that first night. The Ex-SEAL had been more intractable than Maddie on that point, which had been an amazing feat in and of itself. But he'd heard what Michael had said to her over the phone and had known somehow that there was some overdue mother-son interaction that needed to take place. If Michael Westen was everyone's white knight, then Sam Axe was his wise old wizard companion, albeit in a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt instead of a robe.

_~She was lying on her back, looking so still and content as he looked down at her.~_

For his part, Madeline's son was too drained physically and emotionally to fight them. He was caught in a whirlpool of tumultuous thoughts and he couldn't figure out how to break free, despite his training and his overwhelming desire to do so:

Joy that his mom was okay and she hadn't been killed;

Anger that she had been a target;

Relief that neither his mom or Jesse had been hurt or killed, though it could easily have gone the other way if he'd had less resourceful friends and family;

Regret for the police officer who'd lost his life in the line of duty;

Remorse because his mom had been paid a visit by a psychotic ex-Army Ranger being used as an errand boy and he was the reason that the officer was dead and that she could have just as easily have joined one of Miami's finest;

Sympathy for the Ranger who'd been used by Dr. Fullerton as a pawn;

Rage that Anson had hurt someone else in his quest to hurt him;

Rapture, reveling in the remembered feel of having his hands around his enemy's throat and the sheer release of literally kicking the crap out of him;

Frustration that he'd been outmaneuvered again and his friends' lives had been used as bargaining chips yet again;

Elation that Sam and Dani were still alive, despite the bastard trying to kill them the moment he was safely away after all;

Guilt and fury, swirling together, as he remembered standing on the dock, firing at a boat too far gone, but still emptying the clip nonetheless;

Hope that Fiona could soon be freed;

Despondency, as he had no idea where to start looking for his prey at that moment;

Determination to set her free again;

Longing, because no matter when he got her out, it could never be soon enough;

Gratitude for his other constant companion and his new friends;

Betrayal, but he'd refused delivery as he'd already processed that earlier today;

Shame, but he refused delivery on that as well, as Sam had already forgiven him for resurrecting Larry's Kid albeit briefly;

Worry that without Fiona ...

_~She'd looked like she had that morning before he'd gone to erase all traces of the DIA shrink's extra-curricular activities from the CIA computers, the morning he'd finally acknowledged that _she_ was the most important thing in his world.~_

So he had gone on in endless circles, swept along in that tidal wave of feelings just surely as he had once been towed under by that rip current in the Atlantic he'd gotten caught in as a teenager while playing hooky at the beach.

His iced tea had sat on the coffee table untouched and sweating until his mother, who had watched wordlessly through half a pack of Marlboro Reds as he sat on her couch and stared into space, finally commanded his attention.

_"Michael," _

All it had taken had been one word, one look and one subsequent embrace there on that worn old sofa and forty years had been stripped away in an instant. They were again just a mother and a son, two people against a world full of bigger and badder predators who would survive against the odds, who would be hurt and hurt each other, who shared a bond at a fundamental level that a lifetime of aggravation, avoidance, recrimination, utter pain and outright neglect couldn't erase.

_"I'm sorry, Ma. I really am."_

_"I know, honey. I'm sorry, too."_

That the exact dimensions of those mutual apologies were not specified had been irrelevant, the offering had been sufficient and they hadn't needed to exchange those same rare words they had said on the phone once more; that it still applied had been implicitly understood.

But that hadn't stopped her son from insisting on returning to the loft the next day and it hadn't stopped his mother from worrying about him or being frustrated when his pat answer had become 'I'm fine' yet again, when he was clearly not.

But she soon had another son to worry about, one who had more readily accepted her enabling for decades and who was therefore less reticent to accept her help and companionship.

_~He'd loved watching her sleep from their very first days together in that drab little flat in Dublin. She fascinated him when she slept, just as she did when he saw her dance the first time in that dingy little bar back in Belfast-the Black Sand Pub~ _

He'd slept in the green chair his first night back in the loft. It had been a dreamless slumber unlike tonight. What it had lacked in nocturnal visitation, it more than made up for in stiff and sore muscles when Sam had awakened him the next day, his indecision as to where to sleep having caused his uncomfortable condition.

_~The contrast between the mischievous hellcat she could be when awake and the feline embodiment of contented femininity she was while asleep had always been a source of endless fascination for him, even in his own dreams. ~_

As days of searching had turned into weeks, Michael had alternated between frenzied activity in pursuit of their quarry, lobbying for her freedom and "moping." Although his best friend had objected strenuously to the term when presented with Sam's assessment, the former naval commander always called it just like he saw it.

_~He'd learned years ago that she could shift between those two states, go from inert to active, in a millisecond It had been both a painful and pleasurable lesson.~_

But Sam had been wise enough to leave him to it, now that he was persuaded that Mike's habit of carrying around his 9 mm everywhere was for operational security and his practice of keeping Fiona's letters on his person at all times whenever they were not in his hands being read, which was frequent, was for emotional security.

~_He found himself admiring how her tan skin contrasted with the white sheet that lay across her chest and shoulders just above her small perfect breasts.~_

Michael had finally let loose some of that rage that'd been roiling beneath the surface when he'd read Fiona's second letter. The spy had spent many hours contemplating the words of her farewell note, delving into all the messages there, relentlessly pursuing the encrypted meanings behind her words and ignoring some of the more obvious implications until he found himself having another "2 x 4" moment when God or the universe at large had hit him over the head with things to which he'd tried to remain oblivious.

~_She'd been a pale freckled redhead when he'd first met her and now she was a bronzed goddess who worshipped the sun as he worshipped her~_

The desolation in her letter, the reminder of what he had done to her back in Dublin, memories which had mercifully become no longer the primary feature in his reminiscing when he thought on days of Ireland past, had come rushing to the forefront as he had finished reading her words and that emotion had demanded an outlet in no uncertain terms.

_~Her beautiful auburn hair tucked under her back was sun dabbled as well, shining with highlights provided by the intense Miami solar rays that she'd never been able to get out of bottle back in their Dublin flat despite her best efforts ~ _

Sam had been right, he needed to get out there and do something, push until it gave, do whatever it took, even if it meant contacting Tom Card and letting his old training officer use him to do his dirty work, to promote himself in the agency. It didn't matter. All that mattered was getting to see her and letting her know that he was trying to get her out, letting her know how important she was, that she was not forgotten and that he would never stop fighting for her until the day she was free.

_~ He loved watching her sleep almost as much as he loved her, as much as he admired her still perfection when she was reposed in slumber.~_

Anything was better than sitting around the loft reading her two letters, over and over again, going from one to the other, his trembling fingers gingerly tracing the outline of those precious words, 'I love you, Michael. Forever," and "Love, Fi."

Sometimes, he almost got her letters wet when no amount of mental discipline, years of tradecraft or training could stem the flow once it began. Sometimes he had no idea what started it, other times it was a random thought about the things scattered throughout the loft that were uniquely her. The snow globes were always a source of conflicted feelings. The night clothes she had changed out of that morning still lay untouched on the floor where they had fallen from the chair.

_~As much as he loved watching her sleep, he missed gazing into her lively green eyes which held varying hints of blue depending on her wardrobe~_

He'd almost begun to feel like a little bit like himself again, maybe… he actually had his brother to thank for that. That alone had been something of an "other worldly" proposition for him to consider. Grateful to Nate Westen for his company, for his companionship—but he _had been_ grateful that day.

_~ He knew it was a dream, but he didn't care. He was with Fiona now. Tomorrow he would see her, talk to her, but only now, here in his dreams, he could touch her.~ _

Had it been his imagination or had the world just shifted on its axis; or more accurately, shifted again? Pulling a gun on Sam, letting Anson live, saying 'I love you,' out loud to his mother, the world had tilted so far so many times these past weeks that it was a wonder that the polar caps hadn't melted and sent all the penguins and polar bears looking for new homes farther north.

_~He reached out his hand and laid it alongside her cheek. Her skin was so soft.~" _

There was someone else he needed to say those words to out loud, someone he should have said them to ages ago. He'd said 'I need you, Fi." He'd said, "I'm not losing you, not after all this." He'd said, "This is where things make sense," as he'd laid his hands over her hammering heart and he'd said, "This is where it's safe; where I need it to be safe," as he'd laid his hand over the center of her being.

_~She was so cold. Why was she so cold? Why was she so quiet?~_

And he'd said he was sorry, over and over and over, so many times, and he _was so very sorry_.

_~I'm sorry, Mr. Westen.~_

He loved watching Fiona sleep. He loved her, loved visiting her in his dreams.

_~Someone's hands, not his, are lifting the sheet, pulling it up, not down. No, Stop!~_

But Fiona's not sleeping and this isn't a dream.

_~Once the prison riot started, there was nothing that could be done to protect her.~_

It's a nightmare.

And he rips himself from the clutches of his of worst fear, sitting bolt upright in their bed and clawing at her 800 thread count sheets, the same way he longs to rip back the sheet that's covering her face in his mind's eye and he screams.

He screams her name, long and loud, loud enough to be heard over the club downstairs and there is no Fiona to rouse, no one there to tell him it's okay, to comfort and hold him because _while Fiona sleeps_, she's lying all alone on a hard cot somewhere in Allarod Federal Penitentiary.

And now he's crying, lengthy gasping sobs, a bizarre mixture of pain and gratitude that she's there and not where he just saw her, that he _can _see her tomorrow and she'll _still be alive_ and that he can talk to her, though he can't touch her, and he can set her free and they can be together again somewhere besides in their dreams.


	7. New Deal

**A/N: **Set several months before 7.01, so here there be MAJOR SPOILERS. You have been warned. I apologize to those of you who thought my Muse had worked through her song fic phase in _What We Leave Behind._ However, I don't consider these song fic's but rather lyrically enhanced stories =) BTW I don't own "Falling into Black" by Skillet anymore than I own Burn Notice.

As always, much thanks and love to the girls of the PCC, Amanda Hawthorn, Purdy's Pal and Daisy Day, and a huge shout out to all the wonderful Burner girls on Twitter and Facebook and tons of love to everyone who takes the time to read and write reviews, **thank you!**

**()()()**

_See your friends there? You may be able to live out the rest of your days in a cold concrete box, but do you really think they can? They're never going to see the sun again. In short, my friend, you're screwed. But guess what? It's your lucky day. Because I just happen to be in the market for someone just like you. _

He'd felt a lot of things when he'd sat handcuffed in that chair, wishing he'd put a bullet in Olivia Riley too, but lucky wasn't one of them. Perhaps, he'd underestimated her ability to double talk her way out of what she'd done. More likely though, she was sitting in a cell somewhere, too. It seemed obvious as Agent Strong outlined his situation that the Agency was going to save face, cover it all up and drop them all in a deep hole along with the truth and make sure none of this mess and none of them would ever see the light of day again. It appeared that any hope of what really happened coming to light had died with Jason Bly.

_We're going after the leader of a terrorist network based in the Dominican Republic…. And fortunately, you already set up a cover ID, stabbing your old agency in the back and trying to blackmail your way out of it and that is exactly what we need._

Stepping out of the heavy metal back door of the dive bar where he spends his nights fighting for the money he needs to buy the booze that numbs the pain, Michael pulled a glass flask out of his back pocket. He finished the cheap liquor that no longer burned his throat in three quick gulps and then flung it hard and fast against the wall behind him. The noise echoed throughout the pre-dawn silence, followed by a snort of his own bitter laughter.

_I stabbed the Agency in the back? _ _The Agency that burned me and then tried to have me, my friends and my family killed? The same agency that's holding their lives hostage?_

It was the drinking that had been the hardest part at first. He'd spent too many years despising the stench of cut rate spirits on his father's breath to ever want to be that man.

_A deep cover job changes you in ways that are hard to describe. To become another man for months or years, it's impossible to go through and not be affected at the most basic level…_

As the former ex-spy headed towards his ruin of a flat in a run-down apartment block, he'd seemingly attracted the attention of some of the local bottom feeders with all the racket he'd been making. No matter, because this fight wasn't going to end any differently than the ones in the hellhole he'd just come from, despite the lack of jeering and cheering crowds of sweaty drunkards celebrating "el tigre," urging him on as if he needed the encouragement.

_Every hour, every day, whether you're in public or alone, you have to live the life of the man you're claiming to be. It creeps into your soul afterwhile._

"Veamos primero el dinero," he demanded and the pair laughed, their switchblades a visual aide indicating that this was a robbery and not an impromptu bout at 3:00 AM. But faster than either of the thieves would have thought possible, they are unarmed and unconscious, beaten and bloody while Michael rifled through their pockets because he _never_ fights without getting paid and the parallel to a former mentor who also always got compensated for his services slid right on by him and into the darkness of the empty, humid streets of the city.

_Spend enough time posing as an alcoholic ex-spy committing the occasional crime to pay the rent and the line between fiction and fact gets blurry._

The fighting was easy, hard on the body, but easy to do, he decided when he'd arrived here. Plenty of bottled up, stored up, pent up fury to unleash on his target _de jour_… or more accurately _del dia_. It felt too much like being back in Miami, street fighting just because that's the way it was… Michael was wearing that same uniform again, T-shirts, jeans and Converse's… except he's way more skilled now than he was back in the day. There's thirty eight years of combat training and experience layered over that core of white hot rage that had dimmed for a brief time occasionally. Yes, it was harder now that he was older and took a _beating every single night_, but he had known what to do about that too since kindergarten.

"_I need the old Michael Westen…". _his new handler had said. _Careful what you wish for, Agent Strong… you just might get it. _He'd certainly had his share of that recrimination.

And he'd finally had to learn to speak Spanish and some days that fact alone was enough to get him through two or three fights. Practically from the minute he'd inked the deal, he was locked up in his holding cell with a copy of Rosetta Stone and told he'd be expected to finish getting fluent on his own. Six weeks as a deck hand on that freighter had fixed that before he'd been tossed overboard by some less than friendly elements of the crew. Fortunately, the swim was shorter than the one to Miami Beach when he'd jumped out of the helicopter.

"…_.the Michael Westen that got the job done no matter what."_

Stealing food… seriously? He'd been doing that since he was nine years old. Admittedly, the offerings in the produce stands where he palms his fruits and vegetables are different, but the technique was the same. Sometimes he felt bad about stealing from the farmers in the market who're just trying to make a living. But only for a short time…When he commits the odd crime that pays a bit more, he'll go back and buy from the same people he stole from.

_Eventually the question isn't whether the cover ID will attract the target, it's whether there'll be enough of you left to complete the mission when it does._

As he slipped into the second story dump he's called home for the last five months, he went straight to the kitchen cabinet where his stash of various purchased and purloined bottles resided and grabbed the first thing his bloodied and swollen hands laid hold of. Then he staggered around for a minute, checking to see if he'd had visitors, before heading to bed, hoping to get enough of his chosen anesthesia into his system before the _real pain_ started.

_~Tonight I'm so alone. This sorrow takes a hold.~  
><em>

It was cooler now than during the day, but that wasn't saying much. Still, as he settled on his rumpled bed, the same chill centered in his chest that always did when he thought of her. He'd finished a third of the bottle before he'd even managed to get his shoes off.

_~Don't leave me here so cold…never want to be so cold~_

Yeah, it had been hard at first, sucking down the flasks of alcohol. That is _until _he'd finally let himself think about his friends… about his family….about the love of his life he'd left behind. Self-recrimination, self-hatred, wallowing in a sea of misery and self-pity is not what spies do. But if it helps facilitate the drinking, when it lets you become who you need to be for the mission, then… _What kind of rat bastard breaks the same woman's heart like that twice?_ And he remembered when they'd left him in the interrogation room, chained to the table all night, watching the monitor while Fiona slept fitfully, unable to talk to her, unable to touch…

_~Your touch used to be so kind .Your touch used to give me life~_

He'd done deep cover before, drinking his share of Black, Stolichnaya and Arak in his day, but never like this. Convincing your target you're a down and out ex-spy drowning your sorrows was easier if you _were_ in an alcoholic haze, trying to chase your demons and regrets away. It had taken weeks for him to reach this level of consumption without getting sick.

_~I've waited all this time; I've wasted so much time~_

He rubbed his hand over his face and took another long pull, trying to dull the ache that was clawing its way out of his heart, as images of Michael McBride's lover flashed through his besotted brain, morphing into the woman who'd stayed with him in spite of what he'd done to her, from the one woman that had _pleaded with him just stay by his side_, to the one who had gasped, jerked away and turned her back on him, her whole body shaking with sorrow.

_~Don't leave me alone, cause I barely see at all. Don't leave me alone, I'm…~_

He sucked down the local hooch, waiting for it to help him blot out the look of utter betrayal in her eyes, for it to block out the strangled _'NO'_ that had been ripped from her lips and still echoed in his ears, to stop the memory of the tears beginning to spill from her eyes, flowing down her face as surely as the sweat ran down his own face while he shivered internally.

_~Falling in the black, slipping through the cracks, falling to the depths, can I ever go back?~_

He closed his bloodshot orbs tight and pleaded with the image behind his eyelids to understand. _I needed to protect you. I needed to protect all of us._ But the response was always the same, no matter how much of the once fiery liquid slides down his throat…

_Michael, what have you done? _

"I couldn't leave you in there forever. Not for me, not again," he whispered miserably. _They weren't just gonna forget everything that happened and release you. They weren't going to just send you back to Allarod, as if that wouldn't have been bad enough. MI6 was there, waiting to take you back to England. Can't you understand? I did what I had to do to-_

And again, the answer was the same: _No, Michael, you did what you wanted to do._ He finished the bottle and sets it down with a bang on the night table before collapsing down onto the bed, onto the sheets, onto the pillows that smell of booze and his own stale sweat and despair instead of Fiona. _How he missed her perfume mingling with his cologne on his confiscated shirts, smelling her shampoo in her long auburn hair, the scent of his woman.._.

_~Dreaming of the way it used to be. Can you hear me?~  
><em>

His head starts to spin as he belatedly realized that he might have over done it chugging the entire pint. As the room begins to turn, he rolls on to his side and hugs one of the wretched pillows to his rebelling guts, not wanting to add another stench to the olfactory milieu that was his sleeping place- because you couldn't call it a resting place unless he was _dead_.

_~Falling in the black, slipping through the cracks, falling to the depths can I ever go back?  
>~Falling inside the black, falling inside, falling inside the black~<em>

In desperation, he forces himself to focus on the vision of Fiona that's floating on the edge of awareness. Fiona is sleeping, a slight smile on her otherwise slack face, looking peaceful and content there with him in his lonely foreign bed. It's his favorite vision of her since coming here, although he's always been fascinated with watching her sleep. Because while Fiona sleeps in his mind's eye here in the god forsaken Dominican Republic, she's not angry or hurt, sad or in pain, and she's not looking at him with disappointment marring her face.

_~You were my source of strength. I've traded everything that I love for this one thing~_

_~Stranded in the offering~_

"I had to do it... I promised. …Had to make it right," he murmured under his breath, fighting the urge to scream into the pillow. He didn't want to leave them all behind and he hadn't even wanted this life anymore. But he couldn't let anyone else to suffer the consequences of his actions. _Couldn't let them take you away … couldn't lose you again. _But somehow he had lost her. She hated him, but she was _free_ to hate him, _free_ to live her life without him now…

_~Don't leave me here like this. Can't hear me scream from the abyss?~  
>~And now I wish for you my desire.~<em>

He tightened his grip, squeezing the lumpy material and trying to remember what it felt like to hold her body against his. He narrows his focus, that laser-like focus, and he feels the weight of her, the warmth of her, can almost feel her silky hair upon his wet stubbly checks. A momentary breeze cuts through the open windows and becomes her hands carding through his hair, though he knows that makes no sense because Fiona's spooned up against him now, sleeping in his arms, no burn notice, no spy games, nothing separating them.

_~Don't leave me alone, cause I barely see at all. Don't leave me alone, I'm…~  
><em>

While Fiona sleeps, she still loves him. While Fiona sleeps, she's safe here with him. While Fiona sleeps, he can rest with her next to him and hope that maybe tomorrow is the day that Burke will finally show up and put an end to this living nightmare and he can move forward.

_~Falling in the black, slipping through the cracks, falling to the depths can I ever go back?  
>~Dreaming of the way it used to be. Can you hear me?~<br>_

_~Falling in the black, slipping through the cracks, falling to the depths can I ever go back?  
>~Falling inside the black, falling inside, falling inside the black~<em>


End file.
